


Ignition

by ArvenaPeredhel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol, Birthday Party, Drunken Flirting, M/M, Multi, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24682567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel
Summary: For mandhos on Tumblr. When Findekáno is invited to the birthday ball of one of his father's political allies, he's certain he'll be absolutely miserable, and will find no one to talk to. What he gets instead is friendship, and the first sparks of a love that will reshape his world.
Relationships: Anairë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 22
Kudos: 83





	Ignition

“Must we go?” Astaldo asked, looking over his shoulder at his mother, who was laying out tunics and blouses on his bed. “I understand you and Atya, but me? Why?”

“Because,” Anairë said, raising an eyebrow at a particularly revealing shirt cut from filmy, sheer cloth, “the family was invited, so you will be going with us.”

“You decline on my behalf quite a lot,” the youth argued, “so why can’t this be more of the same?”

“And what would you do instead?” the tall _nís_ asked him. “Laze about in bed? Read the same volumes of poetry over and over?”

“What if I do?”

Anairë sighed, and set the tunic she’d been examining down, and walked over to her son. Astaldo - Findekáno Astaldo, in full - was newly come to his majority, and now that the duties of royal childhood and education were behind him, he tended to spend his days doing absolutely nothing. Now he sat at his vanity, looking at the three silver-backed mirrors that showed him his reflection illuminated by a dozen stone lamps set into the frame, and he seemed utterly adrift.

“You need to make some _friends, yonya,”_ she said, warm and only slightly reproachful. “Pursue some higher calling. Learn music, or art, or philosophy, or architecture, or smithcraft. Stop retreating behind the walls of your room and _live_ for a while. That’s why you’re coming.”

Astaldo sighed, almost seeming to shrink as she set a hand on his shoulder. 

“I know,” he admitted. “I’m - I’m more lonely than I let myself admit.”

“So dress nicely - _nicely,_ not _scandalously -_ and put your hair up, and I’ll let you borrow that lip rouge you’re so fond of, and accompany your father and I tonight. Every family in Tirion that I know of has been invited, and most of them have members at least close to your own age.” She smiled brightly, trying to coax a matching grin from her son’s morose expression and miserable eyes. “You never know. You might meet your future husband.”

“Hah,” the youth said, but his lip twitched up when he met her gaze. “All right, I’ll come. But only if you let me wear red.”

“Your father will be so thrilled you’re leaving the house I think he’d let you go if all you wore was the gold in your hair,” Anairë said. “Red and plum, though. Or brown. You don’t want to invite a fight.” She straightened up and smiled more pleasantly at him. “I have to go decide what _I’m_ wearing. We’re leaving at Mingling; be ready.”

“All right,” Astaldo said. “I will.”

 _He’ll be alright, I think,_ the _nís_ thought to herself as she went back into the hall connecting all her children’s rooms together. _He just needs a little variety in his life._

_Hopefully tonight will provide that…_

* * *

“So,” Nolofinwë asked, “is he coming?”

“He is,” Anairë replied, lifting a silver earring up to her face and frowning. 

“Did he argue with you?” the prince asked, running a brush through his hair yet again. 

“No,” she answered, “I’m frowning at my earring, not at my son.”

“I think the pearl drops would look better,” her husband said. 

“Oh? I hadn’t thought of that. Why?”

“You’re wearing that draped and pinned gown Eärwen gave you, the one that looks like starlight,” Nolofinwë said. “Why not continue with the Telerin image?”

“Don’t you think it will be too obvious?”

“Only if you make it obvious,” he replied, making another pass at his hair.

“Nolofinwë,” Anairë sighed, putting the earring down and walking over to where he was seated, “I think you’ve brushed every stray hair into submission.”

“Have I?” he asked, and the smile he gave her was warm and inviting. She bent down and kissed his forehead, tasting facepaint. 

“You have, I promise. And honestly, I don’t know why you bother with all these oils. I could give you a braid that would do exactly what you want it to do.”

“I like my hair this way,” he said, reaching up with one hand and twirling one of Anairë’s black curls about his forefinger. “It contrasts yours so elegantly.” 

“Mhmm,” his wife hummed, and kissed him again, this time on the lips. “The pearls are a good idea, but I think I’ll go with silver instead. To match the starlight.” 

“You’ll look breathtaking either way,” Nolofinwë promised, watching her trail night-dark fabric behind her as she walked. 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” she said. He could hear the inviting warmth in her voice, and it sent shivers running down his spine as he watched her glide across the floor back to her own mirror. As always, his wife enraptured him, but now she seemed to outshine even the radiance of Laurelin. The gown she wore was made of a light fabric with a name in Telerin that he couldn’t recall; it seemed to cling to her every curve and flow over her skin as easily as a sea breeze simultaneously. There was some craft in it, a subtle magic that he could taste in the air. _“One step from sailcloth”,_ Eärwen had called it, and if this was how they sailed, it was no wonder that they flew over the water as swift as birds. Her arms were bare, and her dark skin gleamed in the lamplight, dusted in gold and silver at shoulder and cheekbone and lip. Her eyes were nearly black, framed by the same colors, and they were warm and deep and utterly lovely even as they expertly examined her pile of jewelry. 

“I’ve certainly proven breathtaking to _you,”_ she added, smiling at him. “Come and help me with my hair, would you? I want to use that piece Indis commissioned for me - the one that resembles gold circles? - but I’ll never make sense of all those pins on my own.” 

Nolofinwë nodded, and got to his feet. He had finished dressing shortly before his wife, save for his boots, and he made his way across the carpeted floor to her side. The hairpiece Anairë meant looked rather like the beginnings of a woven basket, crafted of beaten gold, and it would catch the lamplight amid her curls admirably once it was in place.

“If you want your hair in gold,” he mused, “oughtn’t you wear gold in your ears to match? You have those small rings, and the armlets that came with them.”

“For once, I’ll let you have your way with me,” Anairë answered, chuckling; there was heat in her gaze when she met his eyes through the mirror. “Thank you. I would have spent the whole party sitting here fretting over jewelry.” 

“You would have,” he answered, smiling softly when she raised an eyebrow. “I only speak the truth, love.”

“Hah,” she said, but she was smiling back at him in a way that made him go rather weak in the knees. “Finish my hair, and then I have to take Astaldo that lip rouge he’s so attached to.”

“Did you tell him he has to dress well, and he can’t cause a scandal?” Nolofinwë asked, gathering up her hair in both his hands and resisting the urge to bend down and smell what she’d been washing it with.

“He’s your eldest son, and we’re going to a begetting day ball for one of your loyalists in your father’s court,” Anairë answered. “He’s going to cause a scandal no matter _what_ he wears.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he admitted with a sigh. “I wish I could do more to prevent that.”

“We both do,” she told him, and met his gaze again, solemn and certain this time. “We both do.”

* * *

“What sort of person invites entire families to his own begetting day ball?” Findekáno asked, trailing along after his parents. Mingling was nearly half over, and the streets of Tirion were aglow with the warm light of candles and torches and the occasional lamp. He had dressed uncommonly conservatively, all things considered - a short wine-red tunic with wide sleeves that buttoned down his arms, belted at the waist and ending just beneath his hips, and tightly-fitting brown trousers embroidered with plum and gold thread at the seams, with flat-soled shoes dyed to match the elegant spirals curling across the leather - but his hair had been braided into dozens of individual plaits, each one gleaming with gold wire and passing thread, and his lips were a deep crimson.

 _I would be a bit more flamboyant,_ he mused, _but I have no idea what sort of party I am walking into._ He had an expansive wardrobe at home, but as of yet there had been no real opportunity to _use_ any of it - the last ball he had been to was before he’d reached his majority, when he’d scaled a marble pillar to fetch a scarf that had been tossed up onto a chandelier and was in danger of catching fire.

“The sort of person who has children of his own,” his mother answered. She was arm in arm with his father, who was clad in formal robes of blue and silver and gold to match her. “Nelmaner has three sons, all near to your age.”

“And he didn’t want them to get bored, I’ll bet,” Findekáno sighed. 

“Astaldo,” Anairë said, and her tone was just warm enough to mark a warning. “Be polite.”

“I’ll be polite,” he replied. “But I don’t really see this ball as being _interesting.”_

“You might if you learned to dance,” his father Nolofinwë cut in.

“Dancing alone is awkward,” he said, “and dancing with a partner is _boring._ What am I supposed to talk about while the music plays, anyway?”

His parents exchanged a look that was far too amused for his taste, so he fell silent again, kicking a pebble down the paved street as they walked. The silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity, but at last they came to the elegant gates of _Heru_ Nelmaner’s home. They were at the outer edge of Tirion’s noble district, which gave their host plenty of space for impeccably kept gardens. As they passed into the walled-off greenery, Findekáno stared at the gleaming paths of crushed white stone and the hedges trimmed into fantastic, almost-impossible shapes. His _alatar’s_ holdings outside the city were still the finest grounds he’d ever set his eyes on, but it was easy to tell that Nelmaner cared deeply for the land he lived on.

“This is lovely,” Anairë said, echoing his thoughts as she often seemed to. “Tell me again why _we_ don’t have gardens?”

“Because your sister holds your parents’ estate as her own,” Nolofinwë replied, “and my own father’s great house is _his,_ and because I am not the eldest I do not have any claim to his lands outside the city.” He smiled at his wife. “And because you hate gardening.”

“And because I hate gardening,” she agreed, “while Nelmaner certainly does not.”

Findekáno said nothing, watching as the last of Laurelin’s light bled to silver and the stars overhead became far more visible. As the world dimmed, lamps that had until now gone unnoticed amid flowers and trees sparked to life, making the pathways gleam beneath the feet of those who trod them. They were far from alone - Nelmaner was one of the more popular members of his _alatar’s_ court, and a wider invitation meant that anyone who was reasonably bored could be there, and so the gardens were full of _eldar_ he had seen at one time or another, speaking to one another in between bites of food or sips of wine, or else making their way to the house proper to be announced. Suddenly, he wondered if he ought to have stayed home regardless of what his parents thought. 

_What if I’m bored out of my mind?_ he thought as they drew near to the marble steps that led into the ballroom, and the attendants who would let any listening ears know that the second son of Finwë had made an appearance. _What if the only people here who aren’t as old as my parents, or_ older, _are obnoxious and self-obsessed?_ He almost tripped over his own feet when they reached the steps, too lost in his own worries to notice that he’d come to the end of the paths. Thankfully, he _didn’t_ slam face-first into the stone, instead scrambling after his always-graceful parents and managing to look at least a little respectable as the herald called their names. Whether or not anyone heard the announcement didn’t seem to matter, but it had been made, and so they entered the gleaming ballroom to find a whirl of color and light and music. 

Nearly the whole room was taken up by dancing, with a few _eldar_ scattered around its fringes in quiet conversation. The musicians sat by a high, arched entrance to another chamber, through which Findekáno could see a long table with food and drink and more guests, and to his right was a pair of closed double doors that doubtless led into the house proper. _Oh, I’m_ extremely _underdressed,_ he thought, and swore rather vehemently in the privacy of his thoughts. Everyone around him was arrayed in finery, their clothes at the height of Tirion fashion or else timeless and unassailable by sharp-tongued critics, and he looked as if he and a few friends were going to one of the nicer inns for a round of drinks. 

_Damn,_ he thought, sighing. _Next time I’ll do better._

 _I suppose that means there has to_ be _a next time, doesn’t there?_

“Astaldo,” Anairë said, startling him yet again. She had moved to his father’s right, and was watching the dancers when she wasn’t looking at him.

“Yes?” he asked, looking back at her, and he winced as she smiled at him.

“Go,” she said, gesturing with her free hand. “We’ll find you when we want to leave.” 

“I - oh,” he answered, realizing he’d been dismissed as she turned her full attention back to the ball proper and to his father. “I’ll… see you later, then.”

Dancing was out of the question, and after a cursory scan of the various faces Findekáno failed to see anyone he recognized. _Worst comes to worst,_ he decided, slowly skirting the edges of the room, _I’ll eat and have a few drinks and then go back to the gardens and climb a tree and watch the stars. It’s no_ less _social than I’d be at home, and so_ Ammë _and_ Atya _can’t complain._

Satisfied with himself, he passed through the arch into the second room, and found himself suddenly surrounded by _eldar_ his own age. He wondered if all of them had been dragged along to Nelmaner’s ball much as he had, but it didn’t take long for him to realize that _unlike_ him, they had friends and family to speak to. Everyone seemed to have a drink in one hand and a plate of _mattarinci_ in the other, laughing and making polite (and, occasionally, _not-_ so-polite) conversation to pass the time. 

_This was a bad idea,_ he thought, his heart sinking. _But at least the view is nice._ The room they were all clustered in was open on the far side, overlooking the back gardens, which were home to far more trees and rolling hills than the front had been. It seemed that Nelmaner was aiming for a slightly more rustic aesthetic in that part of his estate, especially since the walls encircling it only kept out more fields and trees on this side of the house. 

_All right, then,_ Findekáno decided. _Food, and a few glasses of wine, and then out into the gardens._ He drew himself up, pushing through the small knots of partygoers until he reached the table. The wine had already been poured into many goblets, and he picked one up and took an experimental sip. He was instantly impressed. Nelmaner was sparing no expense, it seemed, and had either purchased from one of the more discerning merchants or broken into the better vintages of his own cellars.

 _If the food is as good as the wine is, I’ll be quite happy,_ he thought, downing the rest of his glass too quickly and accepting the silent offer from an attendant for more. He found a plate - gold, like the goblets - and filled it with fruit and savory pastry puffs and bits of _porocell_ wrapped in _almocirë._ The closer he was to eating, the hungrier he seemed, though perhaps it was the wine.

“Findekáno?”

“Hm?” he asked automatically, glancing over his shoulder. A _wendë_ who looked to be his own age was looking at him uncertainly. She was tall, and slender, with pale skin betraying Telerin ancestry and long Vanya-gold hair hanging loose about her shoulders. Her sea-green gown was sleeveless, like his mother’s, pinned at the shoulders with heavy gold brooches. 

“It _is_ you,” she said brightly, crossing the distance between them with a growing smile on her face. “I’m glad to see you again.”

 _And I have no idea who you are,_ he thought, but aloud he only said “Forgive me, milady, but I think you must have the better of me. I cannot recall your name.”

“Oh!” she said, blushing a little; she laughed, and lifted one hand to cover it. “No, it’s _me_ you ought to forgive. I’m called Elenwë, and we met only once before, when you scaled that pillar to save my scarf.”

“That was you!” he cried. “I’m so sorry, I should have remembered!”

“Neither one of us were grown yet,” she said, dismissing his apology with a shrug. “But - are you here completely alone?”

“More or less,” he admitted, taking another sip of wine. “I had planned on adjourning to the gardens with my plate and my cup, and spending the evening there.”

“You needn’t be so dramatic,” she told him, angling her head back at a group of young _eldar_ who were watching her in between draining their own cups. “Come talk with us. If we’re dreadful company, make your excuses, but it’s a ball. You ought to be social.”

“I’m horribly underdressed,” he said as he followed her. “I think that must be part of why I have no confidence.”

“Can you rush home and change? Surely you have _something_ better to wear than this.”

“We live very close to the _Alatapaca,”_ he said. “I’d be gone for ages.”

“You must be important,” Elenwë said, and then laughed when he looked shocked. “Oh, don’t be so serious all the time! Am I not allowed to tease a new friend?”

“You’re drunk,” he realized, and she laughed again.

“Of course I am. It’s excellent wine.”

By now they had reached her friends, who were all clustered around the low carved rail that separated the room from the gardens when there were no pillars to keep the roof up. All of them were both more finely dressed than he was and significantly more drunk.

“Everyone,” Elenwë said, putting a hand on Findekáno’s shoulder in a very friendly fashion, “this is Findekáno. He’s the one who kept my scarf from getting burnt when that dreadful _súniyon_ Tyelkormo threw it into the chandelier.”

“Oh, good for you,” said a _nér_ that Findekáno didn’t recognize. “He’s an ass and he deserves to get shown up now and again.”

“I - I wouldn’t know,” he said in response, a little nervously. “I only met him the once. He got very annoyed with me.”

“Knowing him, he _would,”_ another _wendë_ said. She was dark-haired and dark-eyed in true Noldorin fashion, with brown skin only a little lighter than his own, and despite his preference for _néri_ he couldn’t deny she was lovely in her crimson gown. She smiled at him when she caught him examining its stitchwork. “I’m Annamírë. It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” he said, and hoped she didn’t take his appreciation of her aesthetic as a sign of something more.

“Oh, we’re all _beasts,”_ she said in response. “You poor _nér._ You’ve never met any of us except for Elenwë, and here we are gregariously demanding you act as if we’re all bosom companions. Take a breath, and eat your _porocell_ before it gets cold, and join in our conversation whenever you feel like it.”

For a moment, Findekáno thought he would be dragged into their group headlong regardless of her instructions, but then Elenwë launched into a complicated and slightly incoherent retelling of his rescue of her scarf, and he was left to observe and to eat. It was easier than he had expected to slide into their little circle, adding witty commentary to the account of his daring expedition up the pillar and laughing at all the right jokes, and before he knew it he’d had five or six goblets’ worth of wine and he’d moved on to the _lissë_ course of the rather unconventional dinner. 

_I think having friends must be very easy,_ he realized, floating on the warm buzz of _nenvalaina_ in his blood. _I was silly to be so frightened of trying._ Something that Annamírë said made everyone laugh, and he joined in easily, throwing his arm back in a motion that was almost awkward, and was far more forceful than he’d meant for it to be. His right side shifted back, forcing him to turn and look at the rest of the room and the far wall -

\- the world seemed to pitch under his feet, and his heart thudded against his ribs, and his breath was pulled out of his lungs in a single sigh. 

Standing on the other side of the tables of food, leaning against a pillar and observing the festivities with an air of disinterest, was the most beautiful person Findekáno had ever seen. It was a _nér,_ or a Maia in _nér-_ shape, and the more he looked the more he suspected the latter was the truth. Whoever it was, they were utterly lovely - tall, and broad-shouldered, in layers of gold that accentuated skin paler even than Elenwë’s. Their gloriously red hair was half-up, framing a fine-boned face and eyes that gleamed like silver.

 _I’m going to die,_ Findekáno thought quite certainly, and staggered back until he was sitting on the rail, eyes wide. _They’re so beautiful, I think I’m going to drop dead on the spot._

“Oh, so he _did_ make an appearance,” Elenwë said in his ear. He flinched as she sat beside him, her own gaze fixed on the same figure.

“Who is that?” he asked. “Does Nelmaner have a Maia for a friend?”

“A Maia?” Elenwë asked, and laughed, and shook her head. “No. _That,”_ she told him, “is Maitimo Curufinwion, easily the most desired bachelor in the whole of Tirion. Probably all of Aman, actually.” She made a face. “He’s probably here with my cousin Cirissë.”

“Oh?”

“She hasn’t been able to stop talking about him since their parents made the arrangements for them to court,” Elenwë explained. “I think she sees him as revenge for her name.”

“It _is_ an unfortunate name.”

“She’s a very unfortunate person.”

“I need to talk to him,” Findekáno said. Somewhere in his mind, it seemed very important that this _nér’s_ name was Curufinwion, but he dismissed it. _My father’s nemesis is that Fëanáro person. I think Curufinwë must be one of his sycophants. Yes, that’s it._

_But just because his father dislikes mine - why shouldn’t I speak to him?_

“You’re chasing the wrong prey,” Elenwë said. “Really. Rumor has it he doesn’t care about _anyone._ I think he’s only with Cirissë because he can’t think of anything better to do, and because his father’s obsessed with continuing on the family name.”

“That’s awful,” Findekáno said, not taking his eyes off of the _nér._ “Why’s his father like that?”

“Whose son _are_ you?” Elenwë asked incredulously. He could feel her gaping at him. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Findekáno muttered, pushing himself off of the rail and taking several too-large steps towards the mysterious Maitimo. _Need to see him closer._

He was near enough that if they both stretched out their arms their fingers would brush when Maitimo turned his head away from the rest of the room and their eyes met. Instantly, the whole of creation seemed to slow to a crawl around them, the buzz of conversation and the hints of music and laughter vanishing to faint echoes of their former selves. The world was gold, and red, and the burning silver of two perfect eyes, and Findekáno thought for one completely mindless moment that something fundamental in the very Song itself _shifted_ as they stared at one another. 

Maitimo’s mouth fell open; his own was already shaping the beginnings of a greeting, but he didn’t trust himself to speak. Another heartbeat, and another, and then everything _snapped_ back into place, and they were perhaps half an ell apart and gawking awkwardly at everything and nothing while the festivities whirled on around them.

“Hello,” Findekáno said, and then snapped his mouth shut before he could add _You’re beautiful, marry me,_ or anything else that would doubtless wreck his chances of getting to know the glorious creature before him.

“Hello,” the other _elda_ \- Maitimo - said, blinking too many times when he spoke. Now that they were closer, Findekáno could appreciate just how _tall_ he was, how he stood head and shoulders at least over everyone else. _Like a statue of one of the High Ones,_ the shorter _nér_ thought, and then blushed at the rush of heat and pressure that pooled in his hips. _Oh, don’t let him notice that. Maybe he won’t. It’s sort of dark, and he_ is _very tall. Not like me. I haven’t hit my last growth spurt yet. Maybe I’ll be as tall as him. Oh,_ ércala muk, _I’m staring at him and not saying anything, I should do something about that._

“Hello,” Findekáno said, and then frowned. “I said that already, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Maitimo said; his flawless mouth began to creep upward in a faint smile. Findekáno went very weak in the knees and the pain at his hips only increased.

“I’m Findekáno,” he said quickly, hoping to distract from his obvious approval at absolutely everything the _nér_ in front of him was doing. “Findekáno Nolofinwion.”

“Nolofinwion?!” Maitimo cried, shocked and startled out of whatever state he had been in before. “But you - !”

“I know,” Findekáno said, at once annoyed at his ancestry and astonished that there seemed to be no expression that Maitimo could make that rendered him at least the slightest bit ugly. “I know. Our fathers don’t get along.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s be friends.”

“I - you - _what?”_

“Let’s be _friends,”_ Findekáno repeated. “No reason we can’t be.”

Maitimo’s horrified expression settled into something that was almost calm again. “You’re very drunk,” he said.

“I am. What’s your name? I mean. Elenwë said it was Maitimo, but I’m asking to be polite.”

“Right,” Maitimo answered, and his laugh was brittle and nervous. “Well. I’m Nelyafinwë Maitimo.” He paused, raising an eyebrow. Findekáno wondered if he was supposed to realize something important with such a distinguished sounding revelation.

 _I hope you were named for_ your _hair, and not someone else’s,_ he wanted to say, but instead what came out was a slightly garbled “Hair the third? What a horrible name.”

Maitimo surprised him by letting out a sharp bark of laughter. “You think so?” he asked, and there was a look in his eyes that seemed almost relieved. 

“I do,” Findekáno said earnestly. “It’s _miserable._ You weren’t even named for your own hair with an _essë_ like that.”

“I wasn’t,” Maitimo admitted. “And my _amilessë_ just means _all_ of me, so it’s not really the same thing.”

“If we’re friends,” Findekáno said, leaning back against the railing until he could sit on it and watch the other _nér’s_ gold tunic catch the Treelight, “I’ll give you a better name. Just for your hair.”

“Mhm,” Maitimo replied, and this time his smile was more confident. “No one’s ever bothered to do that before.”

“It’s a shame,” Findekáno told him. “Your hair is lovely. It looks like blood, but nicer.”

Another laugh, and they were both blushing. 

“You ought to eat something, if you haven’t,” Maitimo said. “The food is excellent here.”

“I think I’ve probably had too much wine to really appreciate it.”

“That sounded almost sober. I’m impressed.”

“Oh, _hush,”_ Findekáno said, waving him off good-naturedly as if they’d known one another for _yéni._ “I’m not _that_ drunk.”

“You said my hair looked like blood, but nicer.”

“That’s just _true.”_

“If you say so,” Maitimo said, and then slid over to sit on the rail beside his newfound companion. He turned so he was straddling the polished stone, silhouetted in silver on one side and warm lamplight on the other. The leggings beneath his tunic and its many layers of gold fabric were a dark red, and his boots were just as gleaming as the rail. “Honestly, I - I’m glad you came to speak to me. No one _else_ does, really.” 

“Why not?”

“Family,” he explained, making a face like he’d bitten into a very sour fruit. “My father’s got a temper, and he likes to know what his sons are doing. And I’m older than all my brothers.”

“How many brothers do you have?”

“Four.”

 _“Muk,_ your parents have been busy.”

“Trust me, I know.”

“Any sisters?”

“No.”

“I have one younger sister and two younger brothers,” Findekáno explained. “Arakáno is the youngest, and he’s maybe half my age.”

“My parents are hopefully done,” Maitimo said. “But I don’t trust them. They like to have the last word in everything. They’ll probably wait until everyone else on my father’s side of the family is finished having children and then pop one or two more out to prove themselves.” He shrugged. “I like my brothers, but I _don’t_ like constantly watching them all the time. That’s why I came to this ball, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yes. My father doesn’t like Nelmaner very much, because he gets on with _your_ father. I only got an invitation because Cirissë’s parents did, and she brought me as her partner.” His already pained expression grew even more obviously distressed.

“You don’t like her much, do you?” Findekáno asked.

“How could you tell?” Maitimo replied with a mirthless laugh.

“You look like you’ve eaten a lemon when you think of her. It’s the same with your family except worse with her.”

“I hope she doesn’t notice that.”

“Can’t you just tell her no thank you, you’re not interested?”

“With _my_ father? Are you mad as well as drunk?”

“He can’t be _that_ bad,” Findekáno said. “I mean, he’s one of those idiot sycophants who hang onto Fëanáro’s every word and makes politics into a battleground for my father, but - oh, I suppose that _does_ make him rather awful.”

Maitimo was gaping at him again. “Idiot sycophants?” he asked, almost choking.

“Well, yes. You’re Curufinwion, according to Elenwë, who is significantly nicer than her cousin. And I don’t know who Curufinwë is but I know I’ve heard the name in conjunction with my father’s nemesis.”

For a long time, his companion was silent, and then he shook his head and a few strands of hair spilled out of their tie and fell across his face, shining like copper. 

“If you were sober,” he said at last, “you’d have more to say about him.”

“Probably not. I’m shy when I’m sober.”

“I suppose that’s good. It probably keeps you from getting into trouble.”

“My mother would agree with you. But she’ll be happy with me tonight.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“I made a friend,” Findekáno said, smiling at Maitimo warmly. “Even if I did embarrass myself staring at you.” 

“I think I can forgive that,” the other _nér_ said, returning his smile and offering a hand that wasn’t holding a goblet of wine. “Friends?”

Findekáno reached out with his right hand, frowned, passed his goblet to that same hand, and reached out with his left to grasp Maitimo’s pale fingers in an awkward but heartfelt shake.

“Friends,” he said; his smile grew until he could feel it almost splitting his face in half. “Do you want to - well, _do_ things?”

“... I beg your pardon?” Maitimo said, suddenly wide-eyed and blushing.

 _“Oh,”_ Findekáno realized, and laughed nervously and shook his head. “No. Friend things. Riding and music and going on walks. That sort of thing.” 

_“Oh,”_ Maitimo said, laughing nervously. The blush lingered on his cheekbones, and Findekáno was glad he was sitting down because the sight of his new friend’s face might have made him go very weak in the knees otherwise.

“I didn’t mean - !” he began, breaking off when Maitimo interrupted him.

“I know, I only - !”

“Let’s try and see one another again,” they both said at once, and then laughed at their unexpected unity. 

“The next ball is… I don’t know when the next ball is,” Maitimo said, frowning. “But. Will you be there?”

“My parents get invited to all of them. I think they’d be very happy if I started asking to come along. And I’m at my majority, so they can’t say I’m too young.” Findekáno nodded, still grinning. “Yes. Yes, I will be there.” He shifted position so he could better look at Maitimo’s eyes. “It’s a promise.” 

“Good,” the other _nér_ said. He looked suddenly worn, as if he’d been propelled by sheer will and giddy joy at being spoken to and it was now waning away. “Good.”

“Findekáno!” 

They both looked up to see Elenwë waving at him from across the room. She was standing by the arch. 

“Annamírë’s going to sing,” she called. “You don’t want to miss this!”

“I ought to go, I suppose,” Findekáno said. “I’ve successfully avoided dancing for this long, but my luck was bound to run out.”

“Dancing,” Maitimo said, and then he looked like he might be sick. “Oh, Valar, oh Eru. I was supposed to dance with Cirissë.”

“Oh _no,”_ Findekáno said, laughing again. “I’m so sorry.” He looked at Elenwë and the arch, and back to Maitimo. “Maybe Elenwë can stand up for you? It is her cousin, after all.”

“Maybe so,” he replied. “But - you should go, but - ?”

“I will see you again,” Findekáno said, sliding off the railing and onto unsteady legs. “I will. I promise, with everything I am.”

It was an absurdly serious remark, and yet it seemed perfectly fitting. He turned on his heel and walked away, maneuvering around the table and crossing the room until he was standing beside Elenwë and could see Annamírë standing by the half-circle of musicians in the ballroom. 

When he turned to look back, Maitimo was gone.

* * *

“So,” Anairë asked, watching her half-asleep son fumble with the latch on his bedroom door, “was it worth it?”

“Yes,” Astaldo said, and she had to stifle a laugh. He’d had far too much to drink, and it was evident in his tone. “You were right. Balls are fun.”

“Mhmm,” she said, and subtly pushed down on one side of the latch until it gave and he could pull the door open. “Wash your face before you go to bed, remember.”

“I will,” he said. “Ammë?”

“Yes?”

He turned to look at her, eyes shining with some emotion she couldn’t quite name. “When’s the next ball?”

Anairë found herself smiling delightedly at him.

“Four weeks,” she said. “You’ll be wearing something far less plain. I promise.”

“Good,” Astaldo said as he stumbled into his room and off in the vague direction of a washbasin. “Good, I’d better be.”

The door swung shut behind him, leaving his mother alone in the hall. For her part, she gave his room one final smile, and then walked silently to her own bedroom and the waiting arms of her husband. 

_I knew he’d be all right, in the end._

**Author's Note:**

> Translations, just to keep things easy:  
> mattarincë, plural mattarinci: little food, finger food  
> porocell: chicken  
> almocirë: bacon (literally “back cut”)  
> Cirissë: a name meaning “slash” or “cut”  
> nenvalaina: alcohol, or “water of the Valar”


End file.
